


Ruby Rock Drabble

by StuckInVertigo



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Other, RWBY Rock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:30:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckInVertigo/pseuds/StuckInVertigo
Summary: Just a thing from Weiss' perspective on joining the RWBY band





	Ruby Rock Drabble

Weiss had never once sung for herself, in all the years of recitals and charity concerts. She sings opera and plays classical music, all very fitting for someone of her stature. It’s not offensive, its not radical, or shocking. The songs they force her to sing, they silence her behind the empty words written for some puppet. Even when she’s offstage, she feels the weight of her limbs as the strings attached to them hold her in place. She realizes, all she is, is a caged songbird, one night, and for the next week nothing but a strangled cry can leave her throat.

Her voice, really hers, comes back all at once, with late night headaches and morning coffee, scribbling words at the corners of her study notes. She forgoes her lessons in lieu of writing, which earns her reprimands that pass over her like water in a riverbed. She finds her heart bleeding onto pages, and once the hurt takes the shape of ametuer poerty in her practiced cursive, and it leaves her raw. She’s exhausted and spent and so full, all at once.

She listens to music. All sorts. Folk, and pop and punk and classic and new age rock and rap and even spoken poetry, trying to figure out which bones go with what she’s written. She doesn’t find it, not right away. She’s loathe to admit it, but she needs the structure of something, needs the scaffolding to lend itself back to her to steady her thoughts and fingers.

But the loud, fast rhythms take her over and Weiss Schnee, with all her family’s wealth, buys a shitty second hand Fender Stratocaster. Beat up and dirty, with the white body shining through, she names it. Myrtenaster. 

Her practice amp is loud enough to shatter windows. To drown out her father’s yelling, and the arguments between him and her mother. it stops even Whitley stops dropping in after a while, noticing her grow louder and more confident despite his unending ridicule. Winter doesn’t say much, except that she has to get better in order to be anything. Winter would know, being a piano major. But it means she has a chance.

She has a chance.

It’s one of those nights where she can’t take it anymore. Her mother is drunk and her Father is telling her all the things she needs to get a grip on if she wants to remain the heir. (She doesn’t, not under him, but she doesn’t say that) Winter is gone again, and Whitely is sitting across the dinner table, pushing his peas around and wearing a shit-eating grin. 

“You’ve lost sight of the classics, Weiss.” Her father drones on, “It’s that other music, that taints your vision as a record manager.”

She doesn’t defend herself. She knows to play it cool if she wants to leave tonight. Myrtenaster is double and triple locked, tucked away in a dusty corner in her closet, her clothes, (acid washed and ripped) are stuffed inside a knapsack, ready to go. She will be patient.

“Which is why Whitley will take over your position as Heir.” Jaques says, nonchalant.

Wiess’s fork drops into the china. “Whitley?” She feels the color flush into her cheeks, pink and hot, and she steals a look at her brother. He’s smiling ear to ear, and no wonder he’s been so cheerful. He already knew. 

“Something on your mind, sister?” He asks innocuously. She kicks her chair back as she jumps up.

“You bastard.” She hisses.

“Weiss, that is enough,” Her Father says, cutting her off. “You may be excused,” He says coldly. “I will see you in the morning.”

No you won’t she thinks, but she bites her tongue as she turns on her heel and strides down the hallway, half hearing words of disappointment from the capacitated family members.

There’s a show in the bad part of Atlas. It’s cold in shorts and ripped stockings, but she manages fine with her bomber jacket. After all, she’s run out of the house in worse. 

She flashes a smile at the bouncer, hoping she just looks like another pretty girl and not the (now ex-) heiress to the Schnee Label. He lets her in, either way.

The band is playing is garbage. The frontwoman is clearly inexperienced in singing, despite proving competent with her Ibanez electric. It’s cherry red, matching the dyed tips of the young girl’s hair. God, someone needs to teach her how to apply eyeliner. And she’s wearing too much leather. It doesn’t match the dark bassist’s or blonde drummer’s styles at all. They look like a hot mess. 

The blonde is clearly off beat, or at least setting it too fast for the original song. The dark-haired bassist, who looks somehow bored, can keep up, but red-tips is having trouble. 

They finish off strong, the guitars power chord mixing with raspy, soprano vocals just right, earning them a meager round of applause. They don’t take long to pack up, all of them pitching in to take down the drum kit. 

Weiss swings her body up on stage, and stalks up to the girl with the dyed hair. 

“You need a vocalist.” Weiss says, not a question, but the beginning of business. “And a manager, and a choreographer, and better clothes and equipment.” 

“Yeah, so?” The blonde girl calls from behind, sitting on her stool, crossing her fit arms across her broad chest. 

“We don’t really have the means to get that kind of stuff,” Red-tips replies, soft, but firm. “But we appreciate you coming tonight,” The black haired girl, whose eyes are focused on securing symbols for transporting, nods.

“I sing. I’ve been trained by Atlas’ best for my entire life.” 

“Miss Schnee, while we appreciate the offer, opera isn’t exactly the sound we’re going for.” The dark beauty says, quiet, but knowing. So she was recognized.

“Are you open to an audition?” Asks Weiss, shoving down her pride into someplace far from here. She drops Mrytenaster’s case onto the ground.

The blonde gestures for her to proceed, while red-tips nods.

She plugs in to the guitar amp, adjusting the EQ to something she feels like is a safe bet of the sound she wants. 

She steadies her breathing. And she begins.

It’s a simple enough song, the chords bouncing with the lyrics, complimenting but not overtaking. She sings, and for the first time in a long time, she feels nerves eating at her throat and through her voice. She swallows it, and the wave of adrenaline that makes things foggy. She keeps time. She taps her boot along, too. But she looks up to gauge the reactions of the girl’s she’s auditioning for, and oh god they’re bored.

She thinks, fuck it, and she turns the volume knob up on her guitar, flipping the switch to the bridge pickup. She rips out the power chord, dirty and ripe with feedback. She forgets to remember vibrato and rests, hell, she forgets to breathe, as she sings, because all she can think is noise and how it feels in her chest to belt out words full of pain and growth. 

She doesn’t stop when her voice cracks over a note, or when she hits the chord wrong. Loving the feeling of making something, she keeps going, and going, relishing in the feeling of sweat at her forehead and shaking fingers until she finishes with a flourish. 

She glances up, her heart in her throat as she reads the looks on the girls’ faces. The frontwoman has her mouth hidden behind her hands, but telling by her eyes, she’s smiling wide. Dark beauty and blondie are grinning at each other, and Weiss nods to them, her bandmates. 

“I think I have the next day until they deactivate this,” Weiss smirks, her Father’s credit card glinting in the bar’s light. “You think we can hit limit before then?”


End file.
